


Oracle at Delfeur

by elesary



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Attempted Grooming, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Auguste (Captive Prince) Lives, Courtship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Laurent sees the future, M/M, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, or goes back in time, political machinations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29338851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elesary/pseuds/elesary
Summary: Laurent wakes screaming. He’s dying. He must be. It’s the only explanation he has for the utter agony, confusion and terror that he feels. His brain is splitting itself open, bits of it strewn across space and time. He’s twenty one, in Arles, finally crowned. He’s fourteen, at Chastillon, on his knees for his uncle. He’s twenty, in Ios, watching a blade sink into Damen’s side. He’s sixteen, all alone, dreaming of revenge.Last night Laurent had thrust his arm at Damen, “attend me,” he had commanded, as if Damen weren’t a king in his own right. Last night, Uncle had sat on his bed, played chess with him. “I will always have time for you,” he had reassured Laurent, “even though Auguste has outgrown you.”Laurent leans to the side and vomits, violently. His fingers shake as he pushes his hair back, slowly, the room spins into focus. His hair is shorter than he remembers, Damen likes it long. His hair is exactly the same, cut by his nursemaid once a month.He is thirteen, at Marlas, and he knows everything.
Relationships: Auguste & Damen (Captive Prince), Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen/Jokaste (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince), Jokaste/Kastor (Captive Prince)
Comments: 129
Kudos: 254





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!

Laurent wakes screaming. He’s dying. He must be. It’s the only explanation he has for the utter agony, confusion and terror that he feels. His brain is splitting itself open, bits of it strewn across space and time.  _ He’s twenty one, in Arles, finally crowned. He’s fourteen, at Chastillon, on his knees for his uncle. He’s twenty, in Ios, watching a blade sink into Damen’s side. He’s sixteen, all alone, dreaming of revenge.  _

Laurent screams again, sitting up in his bed. His legs kick out, dislodging the chessboard that sits on top of the sheets.  _ Last night Laurent had thrust his arm at Damen, “attend me,” he had commanded, as if Damen weren’t a king in his own right. Last night, Uncle had sat on his bed, played chess with him. “I will always have time for you,” he had reassured Laurent, “even though Auguste has outgrown you.” _

Laurent leans to the side and vomits, violently. His fingers shake as he pushes his hair back, slowly, the room spins into focus. His hair is shorter than he remembers, Damen likes it long. His hair is exactly the same, cut by his nursemaid once a month.

He is thirteen, at Marlas, and he  _ knows everything.  _

_ Breathe, _ Laurent commands himself, gritting his teeth as he struggles to sort out the mess that is in his mind. His head hurts so badly that his eyes water, tears useless against the onslaught of pain. Laurent is nothing without his icy control, but it seems to be gone now.  _ What is happening to me? _

“Your Highness!” someone says, and there is a cool hand on his forehead, gently pressing him back towards the pillows, damp with his sweat.  _ Your Highness _ . The words echo in Laurent’s battered brain. He is a highness, not a Majesty, not Exalted. Laurent frowns,  _ of course  _ they call him that. He is a prince, not a king. Definitely not an Akielon king.  _ He is thirteen and they are at war. _

Paschal bustles in, a familiar presence offering comfort and respite. Laurent trusts him, both in this life and in the one he  _ saw. _

Clarity hits Laurent like a chandelier falling from the ceiling of the ballroom. He knows this room, he knows this day. Laurent, at thirteen could not imagine Auguste falling, or falling in love with his killer. If Laurent is right, and he  _ knows that he is _ , he can save -

“Auguste!” Laurent cries, lurching from the bed suddenly enough that the servants flutter back in surprise, even as well trained as they are. Paschal frowns, but waves them off as Laurent dashes from the room in his nightshirt. 

Dawn is breaking and the fortress is already preparing for the bloodshed ahead. Laurent skids around a corner, surprising a guard. The guard frowns at Laurent, reaches out to take his arm. Laurent watches in shock and anger as he is grabbed and shaken roughly. He has had better men whipped for less. But no, he is still thirteen, the weak, spare prince. “The Crown Prince is too busy for children’s games,” the guard says gruffly, pulling Laurent away from Auguste’s rooms. Laurent looks at the guards chest and finds his uncle’s insignia.  _ Ah.  _ Yesterday, Laurent would have flushed with shame and let himself be led away. Today, Laurent knows better. 

“You do not touch princes,” Laurent hisses, gripping the guard around the elbow, sharp fingers finding the nerve and pressing painfully. The guard yelps and releases him, arm going numb and dead. He looks at Laurent with surprise. Laurent is a spoiled princeling, soothed only by his uncle's attention, he should not have known how to remove unwelcome hands from his person. 

The guard opens his mouth to say something, but Laurent blows by him, all but falling into his brother's rooms, “Auguste!” 

A servant, clearing away the remains of a meal, bows. The rest of the room is empty. “He went to the stables, Highness,” the man says. 

“Of course,” Laurent murmurs, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the window. In the distance, almost lost against the pale horizon are lines and lines of scarlet tents. Damen is down there, likely rolling away from a pretty slave girl and dousing his hair and body with cold water. His blood would be hot enough not to feel it, nineteen and on his first real campaign. 

Laurent longs for him in ways that don’t fit his child's body and heart.  _ How is he going to save them both? _

Laurent shakes his head and turns away. Damianos isn’t his yet, if he ever was, and he can’t be important, not yet. Laurent doesn’t have enough time for all the scheming he has to do if he can trust his vision, so he must prioritize and that means Auguste. 

_ Always Auguste. _

Laurent practices what he’s going to say all the way down to the stables, but it doesn’t matter. He enters the building, smelling of horse and hay and hears a familiar laugh. His breath catches and he turns his head and there-

Laurent remembers a future that hasn’t happened yet. He knows what it is to hold onto emotions and reactions and force them under a layer of ice thick enough to protect him. He knows what it is to lie and to hide and to make himself untouchable, a  _ cast iron bitch. _

All that melts to nothing at the sight of long blond hair, the curve of a nose, the turn of a smile. Laurent throws himself at his brother with an inarticulate cry. Because there is no universe in which Auguste lets Laurent down, he swears, drops the curry comb and catches Laurent, swinging him around like he was five. 

“What,” he laughs, “are you doing?”

“Auguste,” Laurent says, and it's all he can say, because Auguste is here, breathing and warm and Laurent hasn’t  _ breathed _ in eight years - overnight. 

“Laurent,” Auguste says, pulling back to look at him, “are you alright?”

“No,” Laurent chokes, because the bugles are blaring and Laurent is out of time. He can’t do this again, he can’t. “Auguste, listen to me. You cannot fight Dam- Damianos. Do you understand me? You will die-” Auguste tries to say something as he lowers Laurent to the dusty floor. “No!” Laurent cuts in, “please. Auguste! Listen- I have seen - lived it!”

Auguste isn’t listening anymore. His attention turns to the men in the courtyard, preparing to ride out. A flash of blue catches both their attention. It’s Aleron’s banner, rising to the sky as the king mounts his horse. It, and he, will fall before the sun does. Laurent cares only because he can use this. Whatever grief he felt at his fathers death has long since faded. Auguste calls an order over his shoulder to the stable boy and sweeps out of the stables, rich blue cape brushing the hay. Laurent bobs along behind him, barely tall enough to reach his elbow. Auguste’s polished armor is blinding under the morning sun, but Laurent can’t look away. “Auguste-”

“Laurent,” Auguste lowers himself so he can look his brother in the eye. “I know you’re worried about me, but I am the best swordsman in Vere. I will return to you like I always do.”

“You will not be fighting Veretian’s!” Laurent snaps, makes a decision. “Father will be killed while the sun still rises. Don’t ask me how I know, I don’t have time to make you believe me. It’s the same way that I know what will happen if you fight the Akielon prince. Don’t fight him,” Laurent begs, “He is an  _ honorable _ man.”

Auguste mounts his horse. “You hate the Akielons,” he says, looking at Laurent with growing concern. He gestures behind him and Jord appears. “Get Paschal.”

“Do not!” Laurent orders, feeling petulant when Jord eyes him warily but rushes off. Because Jord is Auguste’s man, not Laurents, not anymore.  _ Not ever _ , if he can help it. But if he can’t make Auguste listen…. “Don’t you think,” he says deliberately, returning his attention to his brother. “Knowing how I feel about the Akielon’s, that I must have a very good reason for what I’m saying now?”

Auguste looks at him and his eyes soften. He leans down and cups Laurent’s cheek in his warm palm. Laurent leans into it, unable to tear his gaze away from the pulse that he can see racing under tendon and skin. “Little brother,” he says softly, “I will do  _ everything _ to return to you. But it is my duty and privilege to serve my king and defend our land. One day, you will ride out beside me, and I will worry about you then, too.”

_ Honorable men, _ Laurent thinks,  _ will be the death of me.  _ A second, more painful though occurs to him.  _ Honorable men will be the death of each other.  _ Laurent swallows that pang, he won’t let it happen.

“When the time comes, trust me. That’s all you have to do.” Laurent’s voice is still reedy from early puberty, it breaks and makes him sound like a whiny child. Frustration, bitter and thick, coats the back of his throat. He had thought to spend the morning researching what was happening to him, trusting enough in both Auguste’s and Damen’s honor to persevere with Laurent’s warning. But if Auguste doesn’t believe him, Laurent might have to ride onto the field and stop it himself.

The bugles blow again, and Auguste sits back up in his saddle. The leather creaks, stirrups clicking. Laurent watches as Auguste’s eyes sharpen, focusing on the battle ahead. Yesterday, Laurent was sure that meant that he was being outgrown, and Uncle had agreed. Today, Laurent knows better. He swallows the pride and sorrow he feels, but before he can step back, Auguste looks at him seriously. “I would be a fool,” he says as the troops fall in line and trot out of the gates, “to not trust you.”

As soon as Auguste vanishes, Laurent whirls back to the stables, in search of his own mare, a gift from Auguste on Laurent’s last birthday. She’s still alive, Laurent realizes, still unpoisoned and bright eyed. 

He manages three steps before the ground tilts up to greet him. The adrenaline that’s fueled him since he first sat up with a scream is gone, leaving nothing but a shivering body, slumping into the dirt. 

  
  


\--

_ The Veretian prince looks like sunshine _ , Damen thinks, with that peculiar separation of mind and body that happens in the midst of a battle. The air is torn apart by the screams of the dying, the grunts of the desperate and the grinding clamor of steal hitting steal. 

Damen deflects a blade with his own, sinks his shoulder into the stomach of his enemy and shoves him far enough back to bring his sword up. The soldier falls, the reek of blood and bowels rising from his corpse. 

Nikandros calls a warning, and Damen’s body swerves before his mind can catch up. The arrow takes a horse in the flank, it screams and tosses its blue-clad rider. Damen dispatches her quickly. 

The horse rears and flashes the whites of its eyes, galloping through soldiers and bloody mud as it panics. It leaves a brief lull in the battle, and Damen hears himself panting. He takes a moment to look around, seeking out his fathers banner, still standing proudly to the east. He spots Kastor to the west, wiping his blade on a fallen soldier, already looking for his next opponent. Nikandros is nearby, hand pressed to the wound of one of his men, ordering another to fetch a physician. 

His people accounted for, Damen takes stock of himself. He has a gash high on his thigh, but the glancing blow was derailed by the metal divots in the leather skirt of his armored chiton. He looks around and rolls his wrist, sore from the near constant jarring of sword fighting. 

Battle lines shift, and Damen finds himself face to face with Auguste of Vere. The crown carved on his helmet aside, Damen recognizes him instantly. His hair is long, gore splattered and golden, his eyes are deeply blue and rest steadily on Damen with equal recognition and something unrecognizable. 

“Damianos,” he says in accented Akielon, a rueful smile inching across his face. “I suppose I should be surprised but…” 

“Auguste,” Damen replies. He should hate this man, should charge at him and run him through right now, but the prince has lowered his sword, looking deep in thought. 

“Exalted!” Nikandros pants, sandals sliding in the reeking mud next to him. Around them, the battle stills further, soldiers falling silent and lowering their swords as they notice the princes facing off. Single combat is an honorable and recognized custom for both Akielos and Vere, wars born of greater vitriol than this one have been ended by similar duels. Silently, the soldiers form a ring around their royalty.

Damen wishes, briefly, for water. 

One of Auguste’s guards steps close to murmur in the prince’s ear. Damen takes two steps forward, and then a few more until he is in the center of the makeshift arena. He lowers his sword, and then stabs it into the earth, where it quivers, within reach but not a direct threat. Auguste shakes off his guard, sheathes his own weapon and strides purposefully towards Damen. They stand face to face, both breathing heavily. Auguste has a few inches on Damen, so he’s forced to raise his chin in order to meet his opponent's gaze. Damen was raised on stories of Veretian trickery, so he waits for the underhanded attack. 

It never comes. 

“So many have died,” Damen comments. Beyond the tense stillness surrounding them, battle screams still drift over the field. 

“And for what?” Auguste agrees, face darkening. 

“We could put an end to it, you and I.” Damen’s heart is in his throat, sweat drips from his hairline to sting his eyes. He does not look away from Auguste. “Single combat, for Marlas.” He reaches out his arm, the Veretian prince grasps it. Underneath their armor, their pulses line up, lifeblood to lifeblood. 

Auguste opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a strangled helpless moan rises from the west. The Princes look over just in time to see King Aleron’s standard fall.  _ The King of Vere is dead _ . Auguste’s fingers clench so tightly around Damen’s forearm that he can feel it even through his bracers. Theomede’s would tell Damen to press his advantage, use this distraction as another weapon against the treacherous Veretian snakes. Kastor would put the tip of his sword to Auguste’s throat and demand his surrender. 

Auguste is pale. His men are shaken. Damen, inexplicably, waits. Damen is a confident man. A prince who does as he wishes when he wants to, he floats from delight to acclaim to victory to delight, trusting his mind and his heart to steer him correctly. There is little he feels guilt over, less he is ashamed of. But attacking this young man, only a few years older than himself, feels wrong.  _ Why did we attack so soon after the funeral rites? _ he wonders yet again. The Veretian Queen wasn’t even cold when they marched north. 

“How did he know?” Auguste mutters under his breath. He looks back at Damen and something in his eyes is broken. Grief, confusion … resolution. “Are you an honorable man, Prince of Akielos?” 

Damen swallows, throat dry and tight and aching. “I am a prince,” he says.  _ Yes. _

“I am king now,” Auguste says, sad and wondering and proud. “Is single combat the only way you’d be willing to work with me for peace?” His voice is steady, determined, not afraid. But he is looking for peace, not victory. 

Damen thinks about what his father would say, pictures the disappointment and shame that would twist across Kastors face when he learns that Damen had a chance to kill the new king, and didn’t.  _ Why not? _ Theomedes would bellow,  _ the only heir is a sickly boy prince! We could take everything! _

Delpha. How much blood is Delpha worth?  _ None,  _ Damen decides,  _ if I must spill it with dishonor.  _

“Peace,” he says, “Your Majesty.” He lowers his head. Not enough to be a bow, just enough to show his respect. 

\--

Laurent wakes, back in his bed at Marlas. The sun is setting, the day is over. Last time this had happened he had been sobbing on Auguste’s still chest, utterly broken. Last time, the only thing holding him together was his uncle’s hand on his shoulder, stroking, stroking stroking. 

Laurent counts his breaths, forces himself to stay still. If he moves, he’ll shatter. Someone is sitting beside him. He thinks it’s Paschal, who always carries with him the scent of sharp, bitter herbs. Laurent is out of time, and as soon as he turns his head, he’ll know if he has gambled and lost everything. 

“Your highness,” Paschal says, reaching out a  _ black-swathed  _ arm to light more candles. Laurent closes his eyes tightly. 

“Who’s dead?” He forces the words out between numb lips. Hiding has never saved him before. 

“Oh, highness,” Paschal says, slumping back to his seat. “I am so sorry, the king has fallen.”

_ The king has fallen, the king has fallen. The king has- _

Once, those were the words of nightmares, unthinkable and tearing. Now, they are a sweet, desperate relief. Paschal is speaking of a different king. Laurent buries his smile, but his heart soars. “Auguste?” he asks, to be sure. Paschal is not cruel, he would have told Laurent first.

“He is making arrangements for the funeral and his ascension… and he will have to meet with the Akielon king.” 

_ Theomedes, not Damianos,  _ Laurent reminds himself. Does that mean that Auguste heard him? Trusted him and asked for peace rather than single combat? Unless… a horrible thought occurs and Laurent flings himself upward. 

“Why? Why are they meeting?” he demands, reaching to tug on his hair.  _ What if… what if Auguste had heard Laurent’s desperation and  _ killed  _ Damen?  _ Laurent remembered how it had happened before. Auguste had Damen on his back and had allowed him to regain his feet. What if he had thought about Laurent in that moment, remembered he was a king now, and had chosen his obligations over his honor?

By saving Auguste, had Laurent killed Damianos? Laurent brings a trembling hand to his mouth and fights not to heave. “Is there to be peace?” he asks. Theomedes wouldn’t agree to a treaty if Damen were dead. He would march and march and march until all of Vere burned. 

“You need to rest,” Paschal chides gently. “I’ll have a servant fetch you books from the library, and his high- Majesty has said he will come see you after meeting with the council.”

“Paschal. Answer the question.”

Paschal sighs. “Your uncle is drafting the treaty now, Highness. Please, you must rest.”

Laurent doesn’t need to rest. Laurent needs to speak with Auguste, Laurent needs to get his hands on the peace accords and scour it for his uncle's treason. Laurent needs to plot and scheme and go to war. “You are dismissed,” he tells Paschal, moving to the cabinet to pull out his clothes. 

His fingers do not shake as he tightens his laces. Last time he was blind and traumatized and alone. This time he sees all the pieces on the board, this time he can thrive in his brother's shadow. This time, he plays for the heart of a king. 

Laurent is very, very good at games. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow guys, thank you so much for all the kudos and comments!! I can't tell you how much they meant to me. I hope you continue to enjoy!

Laurent exhales in relief as he shuts the heavy tome. The library is warm and quiet in the noontime sunshine, which filters through the warped glass of the tall windows. “Did you find what you were looking for, Highness?” Winoc, the aged librarian asks, hovering at the entrance of the nook Laurent took over as soon as they arrived in Marlas a fortnight ago. 

“Yes,” Laurent says, unable to hide the satisfaction in his voice. He knew he had read something about what was happening to him, it had just taken some time to remember exactly which book held the story. As it turned out, it was a text of early Veretian history that documented the mythologized lives and reigns of the founders of Vere hundreds of years ago. Several of Laurent’s ancestors had allegedly had the same experience Laurent had. 

According to the text, over the last six hundred years, three separate members of the royal family had been blessed (or cursed, in the case of one queen who was driven mad by what she saw) with a singular glimpse of the future. One king had used what he saw in his vision to slaughter his three older siblings to take the throne and then waged a bloody war that expanded Vere’s borders on three sides. Another Queen had saved her child from death, preserving the branch of the family that Laurent himself descended from. 

The problem was, they were only granted one vision, which was limited to a static future. As soon as Laurent had convinced Auguste to offer peace instead of combat and he had survived the battle, the entire future he had seen was upended. He has all the pieces, he knows the darkness that lurks in his uncle's treacherous heart, how he longs for the throne and the sickness of his desires for children, but Laurent has no way of predicting what he’ll do next, how soon he might move against Auguste. Laurent knows how weak Kastor is, how easily he can be manipulated into killing his family for his own political gain. But he can't prevent it, can't guarantee that Uncle won't corrupt him even without the Regent's power. 

And Laurent knows Damen’s heart. Sometimes he can’t breathe for missing his husband’s warm, steadfast presence at his side. Laurent feels lost without him, and the years stretch on ahead of him endlessly before he can seduce Damen into their marriage bed. 

_ Enough,  _ Laurent commands himself, pushing himself to his feet and tucking the book under his arm. He doesn’t have enough time to wallow in self pity or dwell on his endgame when he has only made his first move. “I will not be back tonight, Winoc,” Laurent calls as he leaves the library. The midday meal was served a short while ago, and Auguste prefers to take this hour alone in his chambers, or share this meal with Laurent. 

Laurent doesn’t try to stop the pleased smile that crosses his face each time he remembers that his brother is in the castle, ready to greet him with delight. It's been three days, and the joy and relief haven’t faded in the slightest. Laurent hopes it never does, Auguste deserves better than to be taken for granted. 

Laurent slips through the halls almost invisibly. In the future, he had been unable to leave his chambers without eyes on him, servants bowing, councilors and courtiers approaching and talking to him. Now, eyes pass over him easily. No one is disrespectful, with the exception of Uncle’s guards, who treat him with little more deference than they would a pet, but he is not treated as though he will ever be king. 

The last time he was thirteen, it made him feel like a ghost, as if he were as dead as Auguste and simply haunted these halls, visible only to his uncle. Now, it feels like relief. 

“Nephew,” Uncle purrs, falling in step beside him. Laurent forces himself not to stiffen, not to full body flinch away. It would be counterproductive for his uncle to know that Laurent is his enemy, but Laurent cannot -  _ will not _ \- tolerate his touch. 

“Hello Uncle,” Laurent greets dully, forcing a childish pout across his face. His uncle reaches out to tuck a strand of Laurent’s hair behind his ear and he neatly steps out of range, gritting his teeth together so he doesn’t  _ bite. _

“I thought I’d offer you a game of checkers,” Uncle says, already moving towards his chambers, expecting Laurent to follow him. 

“Actually,” Laurent says sweetly, “I am going to meet Auguste for the midday meal.”

Uncle stops walking, turning around before he’s fully able to cover his surprise. “Laurent,” he croons, “I know this is hard to understand, but your brother is king now. He wouldn’t tell you this, but I know how grown up and mature you are,” Uncle leans down until he can look Laurent earnestly in the eyes. “He doesn’t have the time to coddle you anymore. It’s time for you to grow up and leave such childish games in the past, don’t you think?”

And  _ oh,  _ Uncle’s good at what he does. Laurent spent most of the years that passed overnight hating and blaming himself for his uncle's abuse. He must have wanted it, Laurent had decided, because he couldn’t possibly have been stupid enough to be victimized. But now, reliving it with the benefit of  _ knowing? _ Laurent, alone and grieving and so, so young, never stood a chance. 

But everything is different now. “Oh,” Laurent says, looking him dead in the eye. “I would never presume to have the arrogance to speak for a king, especially not on subjects which I cannot understand. But you’re right, I think I have outgrown  _ childish games _ , perhaps I’ll ask Auguste to teach me chess, instead. Have a good afternoon, Uncle.” Laurent punctuates his sharp words with his sweetest smile and leaves his uncle standing there alone in the hallway, looking after him with narrowed eyes. 

Laurent grits his teeth and leans against the wall to gather himself the moment he’s out of his uncle's sight. He shouldn’t have lost his temper, even that little bit. His uncle is too smart to toy with, and Laurent can’t let him feel cornered into lashing out in a way Laurent can’t control or defend against. Still, he can’t entirely suppress his smile over landing a few verbal slaps of his own, no matter how easily dismissed they are. 

Auguste pretends that he hasn’t been picking at his lunch while he waits for Laurent. “We’ll have to get a new cook,” he says, “look at this, the bread's half eaten already, and this cheese! Someone’s gone and hollowed it out!” He tilts the sagging triangle and Laurent obligingly tsks and shakes his head, playing along. 

Auguste looks tired and pale and sad beneath his teasing grin. Laurent needs to remember that Auguste grieves their father, and is suddenly, unexpectedly king. He’s facing down a smug and patronizing council led by someone Auguste only thinks he can trust while he tries to build a peace with a historic enemy based upon the word of a child. 

Laurent hugs him tightly. Auguste makes a pleased sound and hugs him back. “Are you ever going to tell me how you knew?” Auguste murmurs into Laurent’s hair. 

“Why do you think I’m here?” Laurent replies, dropping the book in the center of the table and stealing the grapes off of Auguste’s plate. “Eat,” Laurent orders, “we’ll never get through this if you interrupt me, and we have a lot to talk about. 

Auguste smiles wryly but obediently sits down and spreads soft cheese onto his bread. Laurent spears a slice of pear with his fork and tries to figure out where to begin. 

“Did your tutors ever make you read Magalie?” he asks, nudging the book closer to Auguste with one finger. 

“They tried,” Auguste says, looking at the book doubtfully. “I preferred Theophile.”

Laurent laughs, “Of course you did.” Magalie and Theophile were both historians of early Veretian history, making them required reading for schools across the country. However, Theophile was a general, and his annals are filled with vivid depictions of battles and military strategy while Magalie was an advisor to her brother and king, who collected political theory and royal history. “Do you remember hearing about Queen Tatienne or Queen Therese?” Auguste shakes his head. “What about King Gauthier?” 

“The mad king who killed his siblings and took us to war?”

_ Mad king _ . What is Laurent going to do if Auguste thinks he’s touched in the head and locks him away? It’s a risk, telling him this, but Laurent has always trusted his brother. “Yes, well, his particular madness is outlined quite thoroughly by Magalie. She writes that one night when he was a young man, he was afflicted by visions. He thought that he had lived sixteen years and then woke up back in the past. He used what he had seen to beat his siblings to the throne and predict the outcomes for his biggest battles. He wasn’t a military genius, Auguste, he had seen the battle before!”

“That’s all very interesting, but what does this have to do with you?”

Laurent breathes and takes a sip of his peach juice to try and settle his nerves. It doesn’t work. “I went to sleep when I was twenty one and I woke up thirteen again. Or maybe I went to sleep and dreamed what feels like a lifetime, and what I saw came true.”

The bread falls from Auguste’s fingers and he stares at Laurent for a long time. Laurent keeps his face neutral and grips the edge of the table until his fingers go numb. “What you saw?" Auguste says eventually, "father?" he does not ask about the rash and unplanned words Laurent had said to him in the stables, _you will die,_ but Auguste is too smart to have forgotten. 

"And so much more, Auguste."

\--

Damen clenches his hands around the leather straps that tie him to the stake and focuses on his breathing. The lash cracks through the air a split second before it breathes fire against his torn, twitching flesh. “Eight,” he grunts out when he finds his lungs. 

Around him, the soldiers watch silently. 

Discipline and obedience are, after all, important parts of military service. Damen had not been authorized to make peace with the Veretians, especially not when he had their new king, grieving and vulnerable, within killing distance. 

Theomedes is a strong, prideful king. He can’t undo Damen’s decision without undermining his status as a military commander and heir and surrendering Akielon honor, but he can certainly reinforce discipline and show Damen that he is not king yet. 

The ninth lash makes his knees tremble but he locks them and lifts his chin high into the air. “Nine,” he groans, voice carrying on the wind. It doesn’t matter what his father or brother thinks; Damen is not ashamed of his actions. He did the honorable thing. His family will forgive him, they will be proud of his strength as he is proud of Kastor’s. 

Damen does not know if he could bring himself to wield the lash if he were in Kastor’s place. But he is grateful, because his brother is the only man who Damen feels no shame in being whipped by. It is a sacrifice on Kastor’s part, one that Damen appreciates. 

The whip lands one more time, and then is tossed onto the sand. Damen breathes, feeling blood trickle slowly to gather, pool and then drip off the fabric gathered around his waist. “You did well, brother,” Kastor breathes into his ear, reaching up to free his wrists. “A lesser man would have cried out.”

“Thank you,” Damen forces the words through his stiff lips. His jaw is sore from clenching his teeth together against the pain, “I know it was difficult for you.”

“You have no idea,” Kastor says, taking his weight, “of my difficulties.” Nikandros appears on the other side of Damen, and between them, he manages the short walk to the healers tent. Kastor leaves him there, on his stomach on a woven bed, but Nikandros stays with him as he is doused in salt water. It burns and stings deep into Damen’s torn flesh, hurting almost as much as the lashes, but it leaves a slight numbness behind. The wounds are spread with a thick, pungent paste and covered with linen, which is left to harden. 

“It was only ten lashes,” Damen tells his friend, to ease the pained look on his face. “I could have easily survived fifteen times as many. Even the lowest of thieves receives twenty.”

“You did not see his face, Exalted.”

Damen turns away to look at the canvas wall of the tent, unable to hold onto his smile in the face of that attack. “I will not hear this again, Nikandros,” he says, “Kastor is my brother.” Nikandros is silent a long time, long enough for Damen to sit up and reach out to take a fresh chiton from a slave. “How long do I have before the meeting with the Veretians?” he finally asks, when he cannot take the silence any longer. 

Nikandros is his best friend, Damen loves him like he was blood, and arguing with him makes him feel sick, especially because Nikandros won’t fight him back. “The meeting place has changed,” Nikandros says reluctantly. “The Veretians sent a message saying they will only treat with with us ‘where blood was spilled’. If you still wish to go, it is a long walk to the battlefields.”

Damen nods, thinking it over. It’s a smart move on the Veretian side. They had originally agreed to meet here, in the Akielon camp, shifting the balance of power to Theomedes. By changing the location at the last minute, not only do they shift some of that power back towards them, they also reinforce the realities of war by meeting on ground that will still reek of blood and piss and gore. Damen grimaces, his father will not be pleased and he is not a man to be crossed, especially by a fledgling king. 

Damen could almost feel sorry for Auguste, if this move hadn’t jeopardized Theomedes’ already fraying temper, on which this peace relies. “I have to go,” Damen says, “this treaty is my responsibility.” 

Nikandros helps Damen to his feet and hovers while he executes a few mild stretches. His back will scar, but gently. Theomedes and Kastor would never risk hurting him. The muscles beneath the torn flesh are unharmed. Damen will heal quickly and without risk of damage. He will not show weakness to the Veretians. 

Damen is convinced he could have beaten Auguste, had the old king fallen even an hour later. But doing so would have made a bitter enemy of Vere, which would have led to decades, if not generations of war. They are going into negotiations from a place of strength, against an untried and grieving king. There is no reason Akielos cannot gain everything they would have won in war, from peace. 

Damen forces himself to walk all the way out of camp to the luxurious Veretian tent that has been set up precisely where he and Auguste faced off. Soldiers drop to their knees as he and Nikandros pass, their trust and respect unbroken by Damen’s public flogging. Theomedes’ undoubtedly planned that too, he would know that nothing inspires loyalty in an army more than a general who is willing to bleed to keep them safe. Now, even if the treaty fails, Akielon’s soldiers will march proudly back into battle, ready to die to protect their Prince. 

Damen frowns when he notices Kastor storm out the tent at his approach. “What is it? Have they offered offense so soon?”

“No,” Kastor growls, “the little  _ bitch _ insists that my presence is an insult to his king. Father says that this is too important to fail before it starts. I have been sent away like a child.”

Damen grits his teeth at the insult. He has heard that Veretian prejudice against bastards runs deep. But deep enough to threaten a peace treaty? Kastor is his brother whether or not they share a mother and any other time Damen would challenge anyone who dared insult him in this way, prince or not. “The new king said that?” Damen thinks of the man he faced only a few days ago, he did not seem the type to be so unreasonable. But then, Veretians are known to be snakes, able to shed their skins at any moment. 

“Not him,” Kastor says, “his younger brother has been made an advisor and ‘will be speaking for Vere in this matter.’”

Damen’s eyebrows shoot up despite his anger. As far as he knows, Auguste of Vere has only one brother, who is still a child. He can’t imagine any competent leader entrusting  _ any  _ negotiations to a thirteen year old. And Auguste had seemed competent. But grief is powerful and can cripple even the strongest of men, perhaps the loss of two parents and the thrust of kingship was too much for him. 

Damen rolls his shoulders and doesn’t wince at the ripple of pain that rolls down his back. “I will remember this insult during negotiations,” he promises Kastor, clapping him on the shoulder. Kastor inclines his head, concerned eyes on Damen’s back as he strolls past him, headed back to the camp. 

Damen enters the tent, blinking to adjust to the dim light. “Oh look,” a young voice says in Veretian, “Auguste, it’s the Barbarian Prince.” 

_ Rude indeed,  _ Damen thinks, as his eyes adjust. Akielon and Veretian guards line the sides of the tent, carefully watching each other. A table is set up between them, well lit by a circle of torches and candles. There is wine, fruit and soft Veretian bread, all shoved to one end of the table to make room for the pages of expensive vellum spread in front of the Veretian royalty. They sit across from Theomedes, who watches them with heavy eyes, sprawled in his cushioned chair. He looks wary but satisfied, comfortable with his grasp on the power in this room. “I speak your language better than you speak mine, child,” Damen says, crossing the tent to sit next to his father. The Veretians are clearly brothers, although they have nearly ten years between them. Auguste sits proud and tall, laced up in pale blue silk, hair clean and falling in golden waves down to his shoulders. His head is adorned with a thick golden band that dips just slightly into a point between his brows. The younger brother shares his bone structure, but if Auguste is the sun, this boy is the moon. He is pale and fair, hair gleaming platinum instead of gold. His eyes are palest blue and he is laced even tighter than his brother in navy brocade, adorned with silver thread. His band is silver, thin and plain, but he holds his head as if he is crowned.

“Is that so?” The boy responds in perfect, unaccented Akielon. “Would you bet Delfeur on it?” Damen tilts his head and takes a closer look at the boy, noticing the fire in his eyes, which stare back at Damen hungrily, as if he is a feast and the boy is starving. It’s disconcerting, so much intensity from a child he has never met before, so Damen glances down and notices the boy’s thin fingers are inkstained and twirling a well used quill.  _ Is he the one writing the treaty?  _

“Are there no scribes in Vere?” Damen asks, rather than rise to the boy’s bait. No wonder Kastor was so angry, this boy’s smile is vicious and his arrogance rather shocking. 

“Veretian princes are actually literate,” the boy says, “an unfamiliar concept to you, I know.”

“Laurent,” Auguste says, bringing a hand to his head to rub at his eyes. “At least pretend to have manners.” 

Damen can’t help but smile at the look that Laurent levels at his brother in response. He likes Auguste’s patient fondness and even Laurent’s sharp tongue. He is clearly intelligent and loyal to his brother, who not only sees, but values him. 

“This is no place for children who cannot hold their tongues, lest they will be removed,” Theomedes’ snaps, readjusting his weight closer to the table to fix Laurent with his fiercest glare, which has been known to cow even Makedon. Auguste shifts, moving closer to his brother protectively. Behind them, a few guards clench their weapons. 

Laurent just blinks at Theomedes with limpid blue eyes. “The children or their tongues?” he wonders, shifting a book closer to him with precise, unshaking fingers. “Although I must say, if Theomedes Exalted cannot handle my out of control tongue, how does he expect to tolerate the Veretian reaction to terms as insulting as these?” Laurent scornfully lifts the copy of Akielon terms that Damen, his father and Kastor had drawn up the night before. 

Theomedes leans back in his chair. “Vere is weak, kingless and one battle away from a rout. This is not a negotiation. You will accept our terms or we will take Delpha and Marlas.” Damen keeps his face expressionless, but inwardly, he struggles against the stance his father is taking. This is why Theomedes is a strong king, he is ruthless and determined in defense of his country. Damen still has much to learn if he ever hopes to make his father proud. 

“You failed to defeat us for months,” Auguste says, voice and eyes hard, “at a far higher cost to Akielos than to Vere. Your casualties are higher and you are far from home on a campaign that has lasted longer than you predicted. Are you prepared for the cold? Fall comes early here in Vere.” 

“Not to mention the drought in Kesus,” Laurent interjects sweetly, “the wheat harvest will hardly support the region, let alone an army. Have you had to decrease rations yet? Hungry soldiers tend to get a bit twitchy, do they not? Especially if they learn that their leaders allowed a perfectly good ceasefire to fall through their fingers.”

Damen forces himself not to look at his father.  _ How does he know that? _ The situation in Kesus has been kept secret for this very reason. It is a vulnerability that is too easy to exploit in wartime. There are warehouses filled with extra rations in Ios, but it will take weeks before they are able to ease the famine. 

“Do not be fooled by my youth, Exalted,” Auguste says softly, “I have heard much of Akielon honor, but I have yet to see very much of it.”

“From you, at least,” Laurent says to Theomedes, looking pointedly at Damen. 

“And what would a Veretian know of Akielon honor?” Theomedes asks, before Damen can open his mouth. 

Laurent doesn’t even blink before he opens the book he has been fiddling with. “...and when the man threw back his hood it was revealed that he was Alcibiades, King of the Sylion peoples. The king, aged by his grief dropped to his knees in front of Queen Thais and begged for the return of his child’s body, so that he would be able to find peace in the Underworld. But the Queen, seeing only weakness in grief, struck down the king and razed the city. The Gods, made furious by her  _ dishonorable _ act, drove her and her people into the wilderness and madness, where they tore each other apart without seeing each other…” he looks up, lips twitching when his sparkling eyes meet Damen’s. Damen can only stare. It’s his favorite story, a history of an ancient Akielon campaign, cursed by the gods for their lack of honor and integrity. “Do I need to continue? I can point out how our mother wasn’t even cold before you marched north. I can tell you how her children were at war when she was interred, threatening her eternal rest. I can remind you that your gods take the rights of the mourning seriously enough to view any breaches of rituals as a declaration of war _on them_. Or, I can hand you this,” he produces a slim sheaf of papers from a folio and waves it around, “you can take the evening, read it over with your _ Kyroi _ and generals, and be prepared to sign it at first light.”

Damen risks another look at his father. The king looks furious, jaw working as he struggles to control his reaction. But there isn’t much he can say, not when the sharp tongued princeling is  _ right.  _ They have underestimated the Veretians and walked into this tent unprepared for the battle. There is nothing they can do now but retreat, lick their wounds and gird themselves for the coming days. 

Theomedes scowls and thrusts out a hand, snatching the document forcefully. He does not bother to stay any longer, stalking from the tent, papers wrinkling in his fist, leaving Damen to close out the meeting. 

When Damen was ten, he snuck away from his lessons for a cooling swim in the crystal waters between Ios and Isthima and was instead caught and held fast by a rip current, which pulled him for miles before he was able to escape it and make it back to shore. He feels like that now, surprised and helpless against the hidden streak of viciousness hiding under bright, inviting blue. 

“Would you like some wine, Prince Damianos?” Auguste says sympathetically, pouring a generous amount into one of the goblets from the sweating pitcher. “He often drives men to drink.”

Laurent wrinkles his nose and Damen has to laugh at the entire situation. He leans back to chuckle and hits his torn flesh against the carved relief on the back of his chair. Recognition and fury spark in Laurent’s eyes at his wince, but Damen smooths his face and eyes the wine warily. 

“It isn’t poisoned,” Laurent says, taking a sip of it himself. “You are safe from us, Damianos.” Damen plucks the wine from the princeling and drains it in one gulp before pushing himself to his feet. 

“You will be surprised if you truly think me stupid enough to believe that, Your Highness.” he turns to Auguste and bows, prince to king. “We will see you at first light. I wish you a good night, your Majesty.”

Laurent watches him leave with that same startling intensity, clenching his fists so hard around his book that his knuckles threaten to burst through his skin. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! next update will be up in hmmmmm two weeks? 
> 
> let me know what you think!!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your kind comments, each one truly makes my day!

Laurent can’t breathe. He watches Damen walk out of the tent and it’s like he’s been punched in the stomach. He schools his face into neutrality and scrabbles desperately for control. He had known Damen wouldn’t know him, wouldn’t look at him the way he used to, but Laurent couldn’t have prepared himself for how much it  _ hurt.  _ Damen had looked at him like he wasn’t even there. He hadn’t even noticed Laurent when he entered the tent. 

And that’s good. Damen would never look at a child with the helpless desire Laurent is used to seeing from him, still Damen could have slapped him and it would have hurt less. 

Next to him, Auguste sighs and reaches for the wine. “I know you learned etiquette, Laurent, I was there when Madame Sybille told mother how you excelled.”

Laurent shrugs and bites into a fig. He knows it seems like his sweetness has dried up overnight, and in some ways it has, but there are advantages to being cold and vicious, especially when protecting honorable men in courts such as Vere’s. Besides, Damen has always appreciated his bite, and that, at least, hasn’t changed. 

Laurent hadn’t missed the flash of admiration in Damen’s eyes when he had said something particularly clever. “It worked.”

“You made an enemy of Kastor,” Auguste points out.

Laurent waves that off dismissively. “We were already enemies. Besides, Theomedes brought him as an insult to you. He knows better now.”

Auguste sighs, “I thought you wanted our countries to be friends, Laurent. Embarrassing their prideful king won’t accomplish that goal.”

“Friends have to be equals, and he won’t challenge a boy the way he could a man. His ego will be soothed by our terms and he won’t disrespect us again.” Laurent looks at his brother and changes the subject. “Did you notice that Damianos was whipped?”

Auguste frowns in consideration, “How do you figure?” 

Laurent doesn’t tell Auguste that he already knows how Damen looks when the skin on his back has been stripped away. Laurent is viciously angry that there doesn’t seem to be a timeline that does not leave Damen with lash marks. Only Theomedes had the authority to command that kind of punishment for his heir, and Laurent would bet Auguste's crown that Kastor had carried it out. 

Laurent puts down his fig before he crushes it in his hand. “He’s rather obvious,” Laurent says, “The only man who’s worse at lying than you are.” 

“But why?” Auguste asks, flicking his fingers at the guards, who send servants in to begin gathering up the paperwork. 

“Theomedes has forgotten his honor,” Laurent says, tucking his book under his arm. “He’s not ready for Damianos to be king.”

Auguste holds open the entrance of the tent so Laurent can duck out of it. “I don’t believe Damianos wishes to be king.” Laurent takes the bridle of Starshine, the beautiful young mare he had lost in that terrible hunt that would never happen now. 

“Most good kings don’t.” Laurent says pointedly, mounting his horse so he can look down on Auguste for once. 

Auguste snorts inelegantly and leaps onto his own big bay, kicking his mount into a trot. Laurent clicks his tongue and quickly catches up to him. “You like him,” Auguste says, “Damianos, I mean. You don’t like  _ anyone _ .”

“That wasn’t a question,” Laurent points out. The sun has set and the battlefield is rocky and treacherous, requiring Laurent’s attention and providing him with an excuse to look away from his brother. 

“Are you going to tell me why?” Auguste sounds exasperated, making Laurent want to smile.

“No,” Laurent replies. He’s thought about this, about how much he should tell Auguste, and he has decided on  _ as little as possible.  _ There’s nothing to be gained by giving him details, no point in opening old wounds that haven’t even been inflicted yet. Auguste would never forgive himself for not protecting Laurent from their Uncle. He would never forgive Damen for leaving Laurent so vulnerable. 

Auguste would slice Uncle open in the middle of the courtyard if he knew, which could lead to his own execution at the hands of the council when he couldn’t provide proof.

They reach the road and Auguste opens his mouth to say something else. 

“Race you!” Laurent shouts before he can, kicking Starshine into a gallop and leaping ahead. Auguste laughs and curses as he’s left behind. Laurent has the advantage of seven extra years to hone his horsemanship that Auguste has not compensated for, so he wins handedly. 

“You cheated!” Auguste accuses, flushed and grinning when he clops up to the courtyard. He sounds pleased and proud, and Laurent preens. 

“I won,” he says smugly, tossing his reins at a waiting stablehand "and this time you didn't even have to let me." Usually he prefers to care for his own horses, but the council is doubtlessly waiting for news of the treaty, furious at being left behind by their new king and upstart prince. 

As soon as Auguste’s boots hit the cobblestones, a servant rushes over to them anxiously. “Your Majesty,” he bows, shifting uncomfortably, “the council is in chambers, awaiting your return. You have been requested to join them immediately.”

Laurent raises his eyebrows. It’s awfully bold of the council to summon a king, especially after they’ve been dismissed. He had broken these same men of their arrogance before his coronation with relish, out of petty revenge and necessity. Auguste, however, doesn’t recognize the council’s play for power over their king.  _ And even if he did, _ Laurent thinks,  _ it would probably just amuse him.  _ Auguste has never had to jockey for power. It has always come to him so easily. 

“Thank you Thibaut,” Auguste says with a smile, patting his horse fondly and following the servant into the keep. “We’ll need wine and bread,” he tosses over his shoulder as he strides towards the large office that has been set up for council meetings. Laurent has to trot to keep up, and he still lags behind. 

“Auguste,” Uncle greets warmly when they enter the room. He stands up from the chair at the head of the table like sitting in the king’s chair is his right. Laurent’s chest tightens at the sight of him. “Sit, please. And tell us how the negotiations are going. You really should have brought a counsilor with you,” his voice is rich and mildly disapproving, and Auguste frowns. 

“I did, Uncle,” he points out, stepping to the side so that everyone can see Laurent. “I brought my brother. Did you read his treaty? It was flawless, don’t you think?”

Herode opens his mouth to say something, but Uncle cuts him off with a twitch of his fingers. His eyes are hard and calculating when they fasten on Laurents. “Of course, nephew, we all know how  _ precocious  _ Laurent is. But it is highly inappropriate to make a child into a counsilor. I’m sure you understand why I have to insist that you cea se this foolishness and trust the men who guided your father.” 

"Guided our father to his death, you mean?" Laurent says sweetly, enjoying the furious muttering he incites. "Who urged him to war instead of the negotiating table?"

For the first time, Auguste’s smile fades. “Am I not king, Uncle? Of course I respect the council and their wisdom, but I am not a puppet nor a simpleton. I have no intention of demoting the Prince from his well-deserved post, and you would all do well to remember that.” Auguste’s voice is hard and unyielding with the innate authority that neither Laurent or their uncle could ever match, no matter how hard they tried. 

The councilors shuffle uncomfortably in the seats. They are not used to defying a king and Auguste was undeniably born to rule, but Uncle holds most of them quite comfortably in his iron grip. 

In retrospect, Laurent realizes that he never even stood a chance. Not yet, at least. Because Uncle doesn’t shift his weight, or look down uncomfortably. He smiles his warm patronizing smile and his words drip like poison from his mouth, “oh, my dear nephew,” he says softly, “but you are not the king. Not until my  _ dear _ brother has been properly laid to rest and a sufficiently grand coronation can be planned. Until then, and that might be  _ many  _ months away, I’m afraid the council reigns. And we have decided that a child cannot join us.” Uncle smiles indulgently at Laurent. “You must be tired, dear boy,” he says warmly, “dragged to a boring meeting with those barbarians.”

Auguste steps forward, but Laurent shoots out a hand to grab his elbow, digging in his fingers until Auguste gets the message and nods his head, fury still simmering in his eyes. He would die on this hill, fight for Laurent’s position as a councilor, but there are far more important battles to wage. This one they’ve already lost. 

Laurent yawns loudly, reaching up to rub his eyes childishly. “You’re right, Uncle,” he manages to keep his voice sweet and submissive only through years of practice and the ball of ice in his chest that keeps him so cold. “It took me so long to find all the mistakes in the first treaty,” he pouts, “did you know that the stupid scribe ceded Fortaine,  _ my Fortaine _ , to the bastard son of that dumb king? Whoever was responsible should be whipped!” He sounds petty and spoiled and petulant, but both he and Uncle know who wrote that treaty and what its implications were. 

Uncle’s lips tighten almost imperceptibly. “You’re dismissed, Laurent.”

“Good night Uncle, my lords,  _ Majesty,”  _ he says pointedly, to watch the council squirm. Oh, they will regret this. As soon as Laurent can find enough privacy to fall apart and then pull himself back together again. 

He keeps his back straight and forces his hands not to shake as he leaves the room, skin crawling with the weight of his uncle's eyes on his back. He manages it, all the way back to his rooms, where he barely manages to get the door closed before he loses control of his temper. 

He strikes out with a hand and sends a chair flying, crashing against the walls and chipping the fresco. He storms through the room, throwing books and goblets and all the carved useless horses that cover almost every surface. Finally, he collapses, trembling with unspent fury, onto his bed. 

_ This is nothing, _ Laurent tells himself, and he knows it’s true. He is no longer a councilor, but that will change eventually, and Auguste will still tell him everything regardless.  _ It's just an inconvenience. _ But Uncle had won, neatly out maneuvered him even though Laurent was supposed to be prepared. 

He doesn’t have time to sulk or to pout. Uncle has shown his hand by removing Laurent from the council, revealing a few hints of his plan. Laurent sits down and makes a list of all the harmful things Uncle could do, and sets about making a plan to combat each of them.

Despite this, Laurent still sees his uncle's smug and predatory face in his mind until he falls asleep. And then he dreams of it, and his creeping, crawling hands. He wakes himself up calling for Damen, but of course, no one comes. 

\--

“There has to be something,” Theomedes says for the thousandth time, waving his hand for slaves to come and light more candles. Damen, Kastor and Theomedes sit together at a wooden table, surrounded by candles and the remnants of a meal. Damen rubs his eyes and pours himself a goblet of weak wine. 

“We’ve been through it over and over again, father,” he points out. His eyes itch, but he picks up the vellum and stares at it blankly once again. “It’s a good treaty.”

“Impossible!” Kastor shouts, smacking the table and making the goblets jump. “The Veretians are treacherous snakes, they cannot be trusted!”

“Kastor is right, son,” Theomedes says, “this cannot be real.” he gestures at the paper, hair dishevelled, crown set aside by his elbow.

Damen feels frustration eat its way through him. “I understand!” he snaps, “But their betrayal is not in this treaty! We have read it, the scholars have read it. Are we willing to go back to war over groundless suspicion? Prince Laurent was not wrong about anything he said. I think we have to sign it.”

“Absolutely not!” Kastor snaps.

Theomedes holds up his hand to silence his son. “This doesn’t concern you, Kastor. This is between myself and Damianos. Unless you can find something wrong with this treaty, you will hold your tongue!”

Kastor goes white with rage, smacking Damen’s hand when he reaches out in support. “Fine,” Kastor hisses, surges to his feet. “Get in bed with the snakes, but I will have no part in you whoring out your son and country!”

He storms out before either of them can say anything in response to that. Theomedes sighs, and looks at the wrinkled paper again. Damen reads through the terms carefully once again and tries to imagine how they could be twisted or manipulated into a weapon against Akielos. 

The treaty outlines a plan for the borders of Delpha to be redrawn to give Akielos access to infrastructure and resources that had long been denied to the peasants, who struggled to eke out a living on the borderlands. Additionally, the Veretian’s proposed allowing unrestricted trade and movement for citizens of both countries through the province. 

It’s fair, and better terms than Damen and Theomedes would have proposed even if they had won the war. Damen is pleased to realize that he was right about Auguste’s honor. “We need to sign it,” he tells Theomedes.

His father sighs and pours himself a goblet of wine. “What about the other part?” he asks. “Tell me truly, Damianos, do you think you will survive the first week?”

Damen drains his goblet and taps the table thoughtfully. His father is talking about the other stipulation in the treaty, the one it never would have occurred for Damen to include. Three months out of each year, the treaty states, the heir will spend in the court of their enemy. The wording is flowery, all about developing friendship and fraternity to guard the peace for decades to come, but Damen knows what it means. 

For three months of each year until he is crowned, he will be a hostage of the Veretian court. And each time he returns home, he will bring the Veretian prince with him. 

“I do not believe it would even occur to the new king to have me killed,” he says thoughtfully. “He knows that Kastor would inherit if I am gone, and war would be declared on my death, so I can’t imagine what he would gain from killing me.”

“I can’t say I’m anxious to host his viper of a baby brother,” Theomedes grumbles, but he picks up his pen and dips it into the ink. He looks at the treaty for a long time before he signs it. 

“Get some sleep,” he tells Damen once the ink has been sanded and the treaty rolled up and sent to the scribes to be copied. Damen stands and winces as his scabs yank on his broken skin. Theomedes is right, he needs to rest. Damen is not incredibly experienced in matters of state, but he knows enough to not underestimate the difficulty of preserving peace between warring nations. Tomorrow might mark the end of battle, but it’s only the very beginning of the work he has to do. 

*

Damen feels much better in the morning. His back is itchy and tight, but the worst of the pain has faded and none of the damage has impacted his muscles. He joins his men for a few drills, sparring with Nikandros just long enough to work up a sweat before he has to go and prepare for the meeting with the Veretian princes. 

He washes himself quickly with cold, fresh water and stuffs a few chunks of cold grilled meat into a chunk of the Veretian style bread Delpha produces. He eats his makeshift breakfast while he walks out onto the field to the rich blue tent. 

Birds sing, the sun shines down on him and a cool breeze lifts the hem of his simple chiton and kisses his skin. He is on his way to finalize a peace treaty to protect his country and his people. How could he be anything but cheerful?

He ducks inside the tent and blinks until his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. Theomedes is being served a warm breakfast and ale by a pretty slave girl, his hand resting intimately on her backside. “Good night?” Damen asks with a grin.

Theomedes chuckles and dismisses the slave with a gentle pat. He eats heartily and generously, gesturing for Damen to help himself. Damen happily takes him up on it, enjoying the rare informal moment with his father. 

Before long, the sound of horses fills the air and Theomedes straightens, shedding his rare display of familial ease and becoming once more Damen’s king. Damen waves for slaves to clear away the mess and squares his shoulders, preparing himself to cross wits with the surprisingly razor-tongued young prince. 

Auguste enters the tent first, looking slightly relieved when he notices the signed treaty on the table. “Exalted,” he greets, inclining his head just slightly to greet Theomedes, king to king. “Prince Damianos,” he says, voice slightly warmer. Damen nods back, biting his tongue to prevent himself from telling Auguste to call him by his small name. 

Auguste steps into the tent and is immediately followed by an older man, leaner and bearded, with keen, sharp eyes. “Exalteds,” the man says, bowing flawlessly. “Please excuse our utterly disrespectful young prince. He has grown quite spoiled and rude lately, but you can rest assured that I will be taking him well in hand.”

“Uncle,” Auguste says, “Laurent conducted himself quite effectively last night. You need not need to apologize for him.”

“The treaty was impressive,” Damen admits, for some reason feeling a need to defend the little viper. “As was it’s author.” 

“Of course,” the prince says smoothly, eyes tightening a fraction as they land on the signed treaty. “He is a precocious boy to be certain, but are you sure the terms are amenable? Children, no matter how clever, are often prone to mistakes.”

“Not this time,” Damen is compelled to point out. 

Theomedes raises his hand and Damen grudgingly subsides. He’s not sure why he feels so resentful of the Councilor’s patronizing and dismissive manner towards the missing prince. He’s not wrong, after all. Laurent  _ was _ rude and disrespectful, and it was highly irregular to have someone so young and inexperienced not only attend the negotiations, but lead them. 

But Laurent hadn’t acted like most spoiled princes. 

“Isn’t that right, Damianos?” 

“Yes, sir.” he says immediately, tuning back into the conversation. Theomedes has clearly retaken the upper hand, leaning forward aggressively. His mouth has that arrogant twist to it that tells Damen that his pride has thoroughly recovered from whatever injuries were inflicted upon it yesterday. 

“Enough, Uncle,” Auguste declares, waving his hand for a pen. “The king has signed and so will I. You don’t need to check the laws, I assure you I have the authority to do so, even before I am crowned.” he opens a heavy tome and taps an underlined passage. The uncle reads it, mouth thinning. 

Auguste signs the document and looks quietly satisfied as he looks at Damen. “It is done,” he declares, reaching out to clasp Damen’s forearm. Damen accepts the traditional greeting between equals without question. “Welcome to Vere, my friend.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Next update will be in two weeks!
> 
> let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Like every author, I love feedback!
> 
> Update schedule for this story (and all my others) is posted on my Tumblr monthly (elesary)!
> 
> Let me know what you think!!


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